


A Kind Hand

by voiceless_terror



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Chronic Pain, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Gets Some Support For Once, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Minor Injuries, Season 1, internalized ableism, not very much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25594915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror
Summary: Jonathan Sims was adjusting just fine, thank you very much.In which a minor workplace spill causes Jon to realize that he might have friends.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 29
Kudos: 497





	A Kind Hand

Jonathan Sims was adjusting just fine, thank you very much.

The switch from researcher to Head Archivist was sudden and jarring but he made do. The qualities that made him a great researcher- his diligence, his rigor, his curiosity- would hopefully serve him well in his new role, burdened as he was with lack of experience or even knowledge in what an archivist actually _does_. Elias seemed to think so, anyway. After calling him up to his office to give him the unexpected news, he’d quickly begun to sing his praises after noticing the initial hesitance in Jon to accept the promotion. Elias had also made clear that his new role would come with an extensive salary bump and living in London on a researcher’s salary was no easy feat.

In the end it hadn’t even been a choice, really. He hadn’t felt the tug of the string that originally brought him to this job in ages. Dormant, under the skin- a gossamer thread which guided him like a sleepwalker to his first, second, and ultimately final interview. And now again, that pull from the center of his chest, that murmur in his ear seducing him to find answers, _find out what’s behind that door, knock, knock-_

Upon finding Gertrude’s mess however, Jon was beginning to doubt the wisdom which led him to his current situation. Boxes everywhere, papers unsorted- how the hell had this woman been allowed to keep her position for fifty years? Unthinkable. Tim and Sasha sympathized and tried to help out as best they could but even they could see he was in over his head. _Poor, inexperienced, ridiculous little man,_ the voices in Jon’s head mocked. The voices which sounded eerily like his assistants. He wanted to argue back, tell them how hard he was trying, how late he was staying to fix this mess. How they could get the archive up and running if they trusted him. But why would they trust him? _Try harder. Prove yourself._ As long as he stayed the course and continued what he was doing, he could let them know he was worthy of the job Elias had seen fit to give him. There had to be a reason he was chosen, right?

Right?

Martin Blackwood, the other addition to the archives, put Jon on edge. He hadn’t known the man previously and Elias’s random assignment of him to the basement had made little to no sense thus far. He wasn’t particularly great at any task and contributed more to his frustration than the mess did at times. Why was he always checking up on him? _Did Elias send him to spy, to make sure I’m doing my job? To report every mistake or inconsistency?_ He couldn’t trust him, not yet.

But the man continued to bring him tea, to mutter positive affirmations and assurances that they were ‘sure to get things in order soon!’ and other platitudes about ‘teamwork’ and such. If they were designed to distract him, he saw right through them. 

But if they were genuine kindness and support, Jon couldn’t handle it. Best to distance himself and snap at the man. Jon had done nothing so far to garner his loyalty, anyway.

All of this was currently contributing to his stress but the final nail in the coffin was not a part of the job description, but rather a design flaw in the building itself.

The rickety, uneven steps that led down to the archives were currently the bane of Jonathan Sims’ existence. 

Jon had used a cane for most of his young adult life, starting in university after Georgie had expressed concern over the constant pain that walking even a small distance caused him. He’d always had joint pain, most notably in his knees and ankles. His wrists had begun to take the brunt of it soon after, as long nights typing and writing as a researcher afforded him no relief. A wrist brace had become a part of his daily uniform in the past three years. Every addition a further sign to the outside world that his body was failing him way before its time. He’d tried to tell himself reassurances, had looked up affirmations online that it wasn’t weakness, that he _deserved_ to be able to get through his day without agony. But it was hard to generate his own support without therapy and without family or friends. He’d tried to go without for a few days, to prove he still could function like a normal human being. That experiment, however, had ended in three days of sick leave and a further resignation that his body no longer had the ability to carry him from room to room without help. 

And then the promotion. Affirmation that _someone_ believed in him. That _someone_ thought he could make it in a career few did. And at twenty-eight no less! Despite his trepidation Jon had taken the job with excitement and an eagerness to do well. Elias was such an accomplished man himself, so his regard was a large boon to his confidence.

But those _fucking stairs._

They mocked him every morning and every evening. They seemed to be impossibly suffocating- Jon could barely fit his bag and his cane without strategic maneuvering. One had to take them incredibly slowly, as they were all of differing height and even one misstep could result in an embarrassing and painful fall. Of which Jon had experienced several.

To avoid being witnessed, Jon would come in impossibly early and stay later than the rest of his coworkers. He’d taken to packing his lunch (when he remembered) and the few times he left the building he painstakingly scheduled around his teammates’ breaks. It was a delicate balancing act, but one he had to keep up with. He consistently had nightmares of falling, of being in front of Tim or Sasha or Martin while they groaned and complained about his slow pace and constant stumbles. He wouldn't dare make a complaint to maintenance or worse, Elias. He was barely worthy of the job itself and this would just cement his uselessness in the eyes of the entire institute. _Can’t even go down one staircase. Ridiculous!_

Today, his three assistants had tried to draw him from his office, enticing him with lunch just around the corner. He’d waved them off and grumbled something about a box that needed sorting. They’d left soon after, and Jon waited twenty minutes before making his move. 

The deli across the street made a nice chicken noodle soup for when his nerves were overwrought and he could barely stomach a single flavor. What Jon had completely forgotten about was that said deli offered a great lunch special on Thursdays that attracted many customers. The line was almost out of the door. Jon glanced at his watch and decided he could make it in time to avoid his coworkers.

This was the wrong decision.

After thirty minutes of waiting, leaning on his cane and obsessively checking his watch, he’d gotten his meal and was attempting to scurry back to the office at a faster pace. He still had time, right? An hour was cutting it close, but his three assistants usually tended to dawdle at lunch, a habit he was now grateful for. He’d gotten through the double doors with no incident, barely nodding in response to the receptionist’s wave. A hallway, two turns, and a staircase. 

The first few were never a problem. Jon always took them particularly carefully and adjusted as needed. The middle few were tougher- differing heights catching on his cane, but still not terrible. _Almost there._

But the last steps- the last steps were always the worst. Warped, uneven, with strange colors that made it difficult to judge the change in height and the distance of the steps. In his hurry he completely forwent his usual caution and the third to last step was his downfall. Too tall, he misjudged the height and his cane caught on nothing, causing it to fly out from under him as he lurched forward, his left knee catching first on the last step, the rest of his body landing wrist-and-arm first onto the hard tile floor with a cry. His soup had flung across the room, and was currently pooling in a steaming puddle at the feet of Tim and Sasha.

_Tim and Sasha._

_Damn._

The two immediately jumped to their feet, Tim cursing and Sasha kneeling at his side. Too consumed with the throbbing pain emanating from every corner of his body, Jon could barely make out the words falling from their lips.

_“Jon...okay?”_

_“Christ!...call…”_

_“Jon..._ Jon! Can you hear me?” Ah, right. Should probably respond.

Unwilling to look them in the eyes, he maintained a squinted stare at the floor while he attempted to get up. Wrong move. Every limb protested as he tried to right himself, and he let out a pathetic groan in response to Sasha’s question.

“Don’t try to move.” Tim commanded, albeit much more gently than Jon thought possible. He had a light grip on Jon’s left arm, the only one that felt slightly usable in comparison to his other limbs. “We can call an ambulance-”

“Absolutely unnecessary,” The words came unbidden to his lips, tinged with agony. “It’s just- just a f-fall. I’ve taken worse.” It was true. Though none as of recently had left him paralyzed on the ground and utterly helpless, his knees and arm locked in place as if they’d taken up root. Jon felt like one of those weak, newly-planted trees that required stakes and strings to keep him upright. _Should look into that, one of these days._

“Fuck, boss! You’re _bleeding._ ” Tim gestured to the blood now smearing on the ground. _Ah, yes_. From what he could feel, it seemed like he’d scraped up his hand and most likely his knees in the fall. He could feel a dampness start to seep into his trousers at the knees. _Probably ruined those too. Idiot, should have payed more attention-_

His self loathing was interrupted by more footsteps rushing into the room. Martin had evidently been in the break room and was undoubtedly drawn out here by the ruckus Jon had created. “ _Jon!_ God, a-are you okay? What-what should I do? Do you need help?” His large frame loomed over both Jon and Tim, casting a shadow which blissfully blocked the fluorescent lights pounding into Jon’s head. _Just stay still, right in front of that light please,_ he thought to himself. Or said aloud, judging by Martin’s suddenly stock-still stance. 

“Let’s get you on your side, hm?” Tim suggested, lightly pushing him to his lean more on his left arm. Although the movement was incredibly gentle, Jon yelped as his arm was dislodged, feeling the sticky residue of blood in his fingers. “Sorry! Sorry.”

Sasha hissed when the extent of his wounds were revealed. It seemed he’d managed to scrape almost the entirety of his palm and a bit of his wrist- what wasn’t bleeding was sure to be bruised in a matter of hours. “Oh _Jon_. Martin, can you fetch the first aid kit?” Said man scurried from the room with a brisk “On it!” The light once again invaded Jon’s senses and he scrunched his eyes shut in pain. Sasha put a blissfully cool hand on his good arm in comfort that didn’t feel earned.

“Right. This is going to hurt,” She said this with an apologetic glance in Jon’s direction. “But we’re going to have to sit you up so we can get this patched. Tim, could you…?”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Tim’s hands hesitated, clearly unsure of the best way to get Jon upright without hurting him further. Jon answered by attempting to sit up on his own again, which just resulted in blinding pain and an embarrassing whimper. ”Christ, sorry about this, boss-”

Tim grabbed him under his armpits like one would grab an unruly child. Jon squeaked, not unlike an unruly child. He hoisted him up in a matter of seconds and gently seated him on the desk he’d fallen near. Jon’s back protested, but at least the immediate pressure on his joints was gone. He looked down, blushing in the embarrassment of the situation. 

Then he noticed the sorry state of his clothes. The soup had fallen clear across the room so he was spared the messy food stains. But he’d managed to ruin his best pair of trousers, which were now completely destroyed at the knee and coated in a growing layer of blood. The brace had somewhat protected his wrist, but he could feel the throb underneath it which indicated that all was not well. The immediate pain had blinded him to the unfortunate situation, and now that his mind had somewhat cleared he could feel tears starting to form behind his eyes. _Stop it, Sims, what the hell-!_

But Jon couldn’t. He didn’t dissolve into sobs, no, but he couldn’t control the pathetic sniffle that followed and the few tears that managed to escape. _If they didn’t view you as a child before, they certainly do now_. He couldn’t stop the internal monologue that ran through his mind, full of accusations and scorn. _Good-for-nothing, useless ass!_

Tim made a noise low in his throat and attempted to console him. “Hey, I know it hurts, Martin will be here any second and we’ll get you patched up and good to go. I can drive you back-”

“No,” Jon started vehemently, wiping his face on his shirt-sleeve. “I c-can stay. I’ve worked through worse, it’s just a few scratches. It’s f-fine.”

“You know it doesn’t make me feel better when you say you’ve ‘worked through worse,’” Tim replied with a worried look. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you _should._ ” Martin entered the room with an apology (as he did regardless of the situation) and set the kit down on the desk by Jon’s side. 

“Do you need any-”

“Nah, I reckon I got it from here,” Tim replied, waving him off with his hand and beginning to shuffle through the supplies, grabbing the antiseptic and small towel. He seemed to sense that Jon didn’t want any more company, which he was thankful for. “But maybe you could grab me some water and get another round of tea going?”

Martin nodded and set about completing his tasks. Sasha had brought his cane over to the desk and was now quietly cleaning the floor where his soup had spilled. _That goddamn soup._

Tim gently removed his brace, scrutinizing the skin for abrasions as Jon winced and hissed. “It doesn’t look like anything’s bleeding, does it feel unusual? Maybe sprained?” Jon shook his head with a sniffle, feeling himself settle under Tim's calm ministrations. “Just hurts. Probably have a bruise tomorrow, but my wrist’s never been that great to begin with.” he responded with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Tim tutted. “Still, I’ll wrap it just in case- that way it doesn’t chafe under the brace. Don’t think you’ll be doing any writing for the rest of the day.” He began to twist the bandages around his wrist and Jon internally sighed. _Looks like I’ll be worthless for the rest of the day, then._

He began to drift away. Tim had started humming a few seconds into his work, a low thing that soothed and reminded him how exhausted he’d been. They were all being so kind, so thoughtful. And _quiet_. Not laughing at him or crowding him. Just treating it as a part of their day, like it was their prerogative to help him out with something besides work. _They just want you quiet and out of the way_ , a traitorous part of his mind sneered. _So you don’t cause a scene and interfere with their day._

But it didn’t seem that way. Tim went about his work as if he were trying to set him at ease and make him as comfortable as possible. He carefully rolled up his trouser legs, warning him before applying the antiseptic and providing a gentle hand whenever he made a noise of discomfort. He even forgot to be self-conscious- his legs were a real source of insecurity for him, thin and weak as they were. Tim moved without any sort of ulterior motive- Jon wasn’t used to receiving a kind touch unbidden. He wished he could get used to it. _Maybe I should fall more often_.

“There.” Tim patted him on the thigh as he stood up, looking his patch job over with a critical eye and breaking Jon out of his musings. He’d done a thorough job and Jon wondered if he had some sort of experience with first aid before. Tim was the outdoorsy type so it wouldn’t be surprising if he did. “I think that should be good for the rest of the day.” He handed him a glass of water and two pills from the bottle of paracetamol in the kit. “I don’t want you walking over, so into the chair you go!” Tim gestured to the swivel chair where Jon’s feet were resting and moved to help him down.

They managed to lower him down with minimal pain and suffering, and Tim made sure his feet were off the ground before he began pushing the chair down the hall to his office. Jon should have been embarrassed at the move, but he was instead just overwhelmed with a feeling of tiredness and resignation. His assistants hadn’t seemed to think anything was embarrassing, anyway. Why should he?

He started as Tim parked him behind his desk, which already held a hot cup of tea and the bottle of paracetamol. _Martin_. Tim began to speak.

“Now, _no writing_. Just record your spooky little statements and call it a day.” Jon didn’t even protest at the use of ‘spooky,’ a first. “You are going to leave _at five_ and call if you need anything. That’s what we're here for, alright?” Tim gave him a soft pat on the shoulder and an easy smile. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you!”

Jon blushed, overwhelmed with emotions he had no energy to deal with. “T-thanks, Tim. You don’t have to-”

“I do. And I _want_ to,” Tim interrupted sternly. “You may be my boss now but we’ve been friends since research, mate! Now take care of yourself, _or else!_ ” 

“A-alright. Thanks again, Tim.” The man replied with a mock salute and a wink, and shut the door.

Jon finished up one statement that day. Martin popped in about thirty minutes after Tim, shyly bringing a new mug and a cup of soup ( _Chicken noodle, right_?) Tim had forced him into his car at five on the dot and helped him all the way to his sofa with a stern warning to call him with any issues. And Jon fell asleep almost immediately despite the day’s pain, feeling warm and cared for and oddly hopeful for the coming days.

He woke up to a ding from his phone-the notification of a work email. It was from Elias, informing him that the archives would be closed this weekend for ‘regular building maintenance.’ This was probably the work of Sasha-Jon trusted that she hadn’t mentioned the specific details of his incident. She probably hadn’t; Sasha had always been tactful and sensitive about such things.

He leaned back on his pillow and allowed himself to hope that he might actually have a few people in his corner.

That he might actually have _friends_.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I just want Jon to feel better. So I projected and this happened. Thanks for reading!


End file.
